Precarious Yates's Blog: Precarious Precipices, page 16

The Things We Eat for Love

“You’re allergic to what?” I gasped, staring at the man I was so totally falling head over heals in love with. “Say that again?”

“Sweet potatoes,” he said, giving me another of his resplendent smiles.

“You’re joking, right?” I mean, he had to be. I wanted to marry this man. I wanted to marry him so badly I didn’t run. But I didn’t tell him my yearnings, so like every good woman in love, I pressed him with questions. And a very severe look.

“No, it’s not a joke, I’m really allergic to sweet potatoes.”

Since this one vegetable made up 3/4 of my daily diet, and occasionally sneaked into every meal, I had to be sure that:

1. He wasn’t just giving me a hard time.

and 2. I loved him enough to give up my main source of dietary sustenance.

He gave me his level look, one that I would come to know quite well. “You can call my mom if you want and ask her.”

“No. I believe you. But I suppose I should tell you the things I’m allergic to.”

He gave a snicker as if I was about to rattle off a list as a form of revenge. “What are you allergic to.”

“Well, not technically allergic, more like sensitive. Peppers and raw onions give me Migraine.”

“That eliminates about half of my diet, which was Mexican food.”

“So we’re even?”

“Is there more?”

I sighed and closed my eyes. “Cream cheese, sour cream, yogurt–”

“What about ice cream?”

“I’m good with ice cream.” I smiled, hoping he had a future date in mind. “Green tea is my favorite.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s all I can think of for right now.” I searched his eyes to see if he was ready to run.

He leaned in toward me. “Will you still love me if I don’t eat sweet potatoes?”

“Will you still love me if you can never eat salsa in my presence?”

His lips formed a kiss, met mine, gave me the answer.

But I had to know. “Well, what do you like to eat?”

“Meat and potatoes.”

I should have known. I should have known my attempt at a vegetarian diet wouldn’t last. “Okay, I’ll make you a dinner you’ll love.”

And as we’re approaching our 12th anniversary, we still banter about food and find things we will eat for love.

My husband’s favorite “Shepherd’s Pie”

1 lb boneless chicken, cut up
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 cup rice
2 tbsp + 1 tbsp thyme
1 tsp cumin
1 tsp paprika
1 tbsp minced garlic
salt / pepper to taste
1 lb vegetables (usually carrots and peas, but green beans work too)
5-6 peeled and chopped potatoes
1 cup Cream or milk, split in half
1 cup water
1/2 stick butter

Method:

Preheat oven to 350F. Sprinkle rice over bottom of a casserole dish. Top with chicken and vegetables, 2 tbsp thyme, cumin, paprika, garlic, salt, pepper and cream of mushroom soup. Cover with 1/2 cup of cream or milk, then the 1 cup of water. Bake for 30 minutes

Cook potatoes in boiling water. Drain. Add 1 tbsp thyme, salt and pepper. Mash. Add butter and the rest of the cream or milk and mix well.

Take the chicken and rice mixture from the oven and spread mashed potatoes over the top. Bake for another 15 minutes, or until golden brown on top.

I know this isn’t real Shepherd’s Pie, but that’s what we called it in the early days of marriage, those days when nothing needed a proper name if a kiss was added to it. But this was tasty. Even if it was meat and potatoes.

What are some things you would eat, or have eaten, for love?

“I Am Willing”

Just after Jesus taught the Sermon on the Mount, a man sick with leprosy comes up to Him and asks a very poignant question, one that, if we are honest, we need to ask the Lord at some point in our walk. The story from Matthew 8:1-3 goes like this:

When Jesus came down from the mountainside, large crowds followed him. A man with leprosy came and knelt before him and said, “Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean.”

Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man. “I am willing,” he said. “Be clean!” Immediately he was cleansed of his leprosy.

“I am willing.”

All the implications of what Jesus did here brings tears to my eyes. He touched him. Even before the man was cleansed, He touched him. Jesus could have healed the man with words alone. Oh! How I love this Man!

But then, before He says the words that heal the man of leprosy, Jesus speaks words that are so often forgotten in our Christian walk:

“I am willing.”

Do you hear Him today? Do you hear Him in the midst of  your current situation?

“I am willing.”

Let the thunder of His power (Job 26:14) echo inside you today. Allow Him to touch you while you are still unclean, so that He can cleanse you.

“I am willing.”

I’ve been noticing a trend lately: people are being drawn more and more to purity. Something inside of us LONGS for it, aches for it. We cry in the secret place where no one sees. But your Father in Heaven sees. Perhaps, just like the man with leprosy, we just need to take a chance and risk the rejection of others as we lunge into the full embrace of God.

He has a dream over your life. Maybe you’ve heard whispers of it. Maybe you’ve been keeping your ear to the door of heaven for a long time now, hoping to eavesdrop on His dreams for you. In either case, I want to tell you, tell me, remind us all of His words:

“I am willing.”

Silly Poem from Pyromarne

A silly song from

Pyromarne

by Precarious Yates

I saw a goat float on a boat on the river one fine spring morn.

I gave a sigh and plied for why a goat should look so forlorn.

He said his date ate late: at eight, and he could not wait around;

He had to eat a treat of wheat he found on her family’s ground.

The sire grew dire, his eyes afire, his sweet wheat stolen, and how!

He chased the goat to the boat to float on the river and made him vow:

To address this mess with finesse, no less, and promise to bring some seed

To sow a row he’d never mow with teeth so given to greed.

This goat, smitten and so love bitten, did no less than what he was told,

And expressed remorse, or forced his course, by bringing his love marigold.

 

 

 

Pyromarne is FREE for the Kindle Tuesday 11/13/12 through Thursday 11/15/12

 

Link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009H68R44

 

The Captives is FREE for the Kindle Wednesday 11/14/12 through Thursday 11/15/12

Link: http://www.amazon.com/Captives-Heart-Caveat-Whale-ebook/dp/B008GNOSGU

“Tell us a joke!”

Below is a short excerpt  from Pyromarne, Book 2 of The Heart of the Caveat Whale trilogy, which is a FREE ebook Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday of this week! Book 1, will be free Wednesday and Thursday. If you enjoy the mirth you read here, you’ll love these books.

(Hint: Ulys, pronounced Oo’-lees, are the river people on the world of Aiqua Marrin. All the characters in the following scene are Ulys.)

The rich smell of fresh manure hit their nostrils as soon as Kedonta opened the smaller door on the side of the stables. The children sat on tiers of hay bales. Under the dim light from a single hanging lantern they whispered among themselves. A few of the sleeping horses huffed, then grew quiet.

“We’re trying to think of cheerful things,” one of the children told Kedonta. “Tell us one of your jokes.”

“Tell us a joke! Tell us a joke!” the children echoed   quietly, clapping their hands together noiselessly.

“Is this the payment I owe for my breakfast?” Kedonta asked them.

There was a wave of mischievous nods from the children.

“Then one of you must make my breakfast,” said Kedonta with a sly grin, taking a seat facing them as if it was a theater. “Okay… What did the Uly say to the blueberry?” He waited dramatically in the silence, and then said, “I’ll be berry quick to eat you!”

There was a snicker from one of the younger children, but no other sound.

“What did the blueberry say in return?” He continued. He waited again for comedic effect before giving his answer, “Nothing! Blueberries can’t talk!”

The younger ones laughed, but the older children just smiled and rolled their eyes at him.

“Give us a good one!” said Rorktû who sat on the highest tier.

“C’mon,” said Kedonta. “I don’t have much today, and you’re a tough audience this morning. Let’s see… Why was the roving horse cranky?” He waited again in the ‘suspenseful’ pause. “He wanted a ‘stable’ home.”

This time the roar of laughter woke a few of the horses.

“I suppose I should feed them now that I’ve poked fun at them.” Kedonta pushed himself to his feet.

“Here,” Rorktû said, handing him a bowl of cereal with berries, “you’ve more than earned your breakfast, Brother Kedonta. I’ll take care of the horses.”

Let Them Eat Yams

Before I had a radical life changing experience at the age of twenty (totally beautiful, I’ll tell you about it some time), I lived in an abandoned warehouse with eleven or sixteen other people. It fluctuated depending on the day of the week, or whether anyone had bought oil to heat the 10,000 square feet during the New England winter.

This was a group of young people yearning for family and finding it in one another. But boy, let me tell you, we fought like family some days! Especially over food.

Since the warehouse was owned by a group of people who had questionable business practices, such as sizing us up for concrete shoes and a late night dive if we were late on our rent, we made sure to pay our rent. But we were young, and didn’t manage our money well. There wasn’t much money left over once rent was paid. Our fridge was pathetic.

We relied on charity (garbage bags full of old doughnuts and bagels) and ingenuity. One morning for breakfast we laid out a buffet of toast with the following toppings:

scrapings of jelly
mustard
Worcester sauce
mustard and Worcester sauce
ketchup

Yeah, I know y’all are hungry now just thinking of it!

One day, a couple of the guys had gone to another town to play a show (I think that was the reason for the excursion) and came back with a vat of peanut butter and a giant tin of survival biscuits from the sixties. Since these were slated to last 100 years if left unopened, and none of us ended up dying from this feast, the peanut butter and biscuits were our sustaining meals for a whole two days in the warehouse. If I remember correctly, I have Geoff to thank for that one.

Before I moved into the warehouse, I had recently quit working as a chef at the popular cafe in town. And although I relieved that cafe of my presence with my tail between my legs, I still wanted to experiment as a cook. That’s kind of hard when you have survival biscuits, peanut butter, mustard and Worcester sauce as your only ingredients to work with. (Yeah, I’d like to see one of those food shows with these ingredients! I still don’t have any fancy inspiration.)

One thing we did have at the warehouse was a hunger meter. Situated above our empty refrigerator, we had a 32 oz. can of cut yams. It had collected enough dust that no one really wanted to open it and eat the contents. Were they edible? Were they safe? Another few months rolled by where every few days we’d wonder who would be hungry enough to break open the canned yams.

Being as poor as we were, I tried to learn what I could eat on a budget. The most nutritious food for under a dollar, I discovered, was sweet potatoes. At that time I could find them on sale for $0.39 per lb. But there stood our hunger meter, chock full of yams. I was tempted. Scared. But tempted. I was almost hungry enough.

Then I woke up one morning and the can was gone. In the trash. It’d been opened and entirely consumed.

We’re not sure Shane was glad he did that, but there it was. My temptation had been removed.

I had several stints of semi-homelessness after that and heavily relied on sweet potatoes and yams to supply me with the necessary nutrients during those times. I learned some fun recipes with yams, and now that you’re so hungry after all those appetizing stories, I’m going to share one of those recipes with you.

West African Stew (vegetarian)

2-3 yams or sweet potatoes, pealed and chopped
1 medium onion, chopped
1 bell pepper, chopped (optional, I always leave it out)
 12 oz. broccoli, chopped
1-2 chopped tomatoes
1-2 chopped yellow or green squash
1 eggplant, chopped
2 c. peanut butter
1 tbsp minced ginger
2 tbsp olive oil
salt / pepper
5 c. vegetable stock
2 tsp cayenne pepper (optional)

 

Method:

Heat oil in a pan. Saute onion. Add ginger. Once onion becomes translucent, add vegetable stock, salt, pepper and yams.

Boil for 5 minutes. Add the rest of the vegetables.

Stir in peanut butter until completely mixed in.

Simmer for at least ten minutes. Add cayenne.

Serve over rice or couscous.

 

And remember, if I can cook, you can do anything you set your mind to do. God bless you!

The Gift of Hospitality

The very last thing I needed on a day like today was uncomfortable underwear. Uncomfortable, mind you. because I’d been allowing my flesh to feast instead of fast and allowing it to gorge instead of be tempered; by this time, my hips are too wide to wear my clothes comfortably. And I’m talking metaphorically as well as physically.

My heart longs to be hospitable these days. I long to have a home where people come and feel welcomed, delighted in, taken care of and at rest.

Yes, I’ve wanted to have a home like this. But what really needs to happen, though, is I need to be a refuge like this, in my heart, for people. That can’t happen when I’m feasting my own desires.

You’re Asking Me to Obey? Really? Why?

Obedience is so important to God. Jesus went as far as to say: “If you love Me you will obey My commands.”

There are times when obedience is like a windy path into the unknown. It’s frightening. It takes trust.

Careful for poison ivy.

For some people, the request to obey is as bad as a string of swear words and spit in the face. For some, the desire to do what they want, instead of obey, is so strong, so overwhelming, it supercedes the desire for relationship.

The desire to obey the rules can do the same thing.

So is there balance? Is it found in obeying sometimes and not other times?

And is it important who we obey?

I believe the answer to many of these questions, and a few others, can be found in one of the most famous stories Jesus ever told.

Luke 15:11-32 (NIV):

11 Jesus continued: “There was a man who had two sons. 12 The younger one said to his father, ‘Father, give me my share of the estate.’ So he divided his property between them.

13 “Not long after that, the younger son got together all he had, set off for a distant country and there squandered his wealth in wild living. 14 After he had spent everything, there was a severe famine in that whole country, and he began to be in need. 15 So he went and hired himself out to a citizen of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed pigs. 16 He longed to fill his stomach with the pods that the pigs were eating, but no one gave him anything.

17 “When he came to his senses, he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired servants have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! 18 I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. 19 I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired servants.’ 20 So he got up and went to his father.

“But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.

21 “The son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’

22 “But the father said to his servants, ‘Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. 23 Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate.24 For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’ So they began to celebrate.

25 “Meanwhile, the older son was in the field. When he came near the house, he heard music and dancing. 26 So he called one of the servants and asked him what was going on. 27 ‘Your brother has come,’ he replied, ‘and your father has killed the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound.’

28 “The older brother became angry and refused to go in. So his father went out and pleaded with him.29 But he answered his father, ‘Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. 30 But when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him!’

31 “‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. 32 But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’”

Both sons disobeyed their father, each in their own way: one by blatant disrespect and the other by his anger at another’s disobedience  Both had their own brand of selfishness. Neither had relationship as a priority.

There is only One who has relationship as a priority all the time, and to that One we should obey. The Father always wants relationship with us to be restored. You can trust that and rely on it with your entire being.

Yet sometimes He asks us, as part of obedience to Him, to obey another *gulp* human being. That’s where it gets tricky.

There are a million trillion scenarios of ‘what if’ with that one. Most of the ones I think up aren’t that pretty.

When the possibilities are so frightening, why does He ask us to obey?

I have to confess, obedience is a sticky issue these days. And with good reason. When you obey another it gives them power over you. I don’t know about you, but that idea often makes my skin crawl.

I’d like to look at this from a different angle. What if obedience is another form of humility? In other words, if you want to be humble, practice obedience. This says, “I’m not the one with all the right answers.” It says, “I’m willing to put my relationship with you above the things I want to do right now, or with my life.”

I definitely don’t have all the answers to it, and there are times I REALLY wish I didn’t have to obey, but I’m thinking about it. Because Jesus deemed it extremely important.

What are your thoughts on obedience?

Enjoy some Keith Green while you share.

I Wasn’t a Great Cook Until I Burned Down the Kitchen

To this day, I still can’t believe they gave me the job. There I was, all my life referred to a ‘mediocre’ cook on my best days, and my favorite cafe, owned by a man named Bob*, hired me to work under new their amazing chef. Jeff was at least 6’6″ with a tattoo on half of his shaved head, he was one of the sweetest men at the coffee shop, so soft spoken, and the best chef I had ever encountered in all my 19 years. Before I tasted his food I had no idea what good food was like (aside from the sushi restaurant I visited at age 12). After one taste of Jeff’s Fettuccine Alfredo I was a foodie, sold for the rest of my life to the idea that food could be. that. delicious. My mouth waters just thinking about that creamy pasta.

How did I ever explain my credentials to someone of this caliber? I told him that I’d been cooking for my family since I was eight. And he deemed that enough experience to work under him.

I was never so excited to make $6 an hour. I mean, this was above minimum wage! And not only that, I got to work at the single coolest coffee shop in town, where I’d been hanging out since I was 11. People here were a second family to me. Not always sober, but family none the less.

I drank in every speck of advice Jeff had to offer, and although I was a sponge, I think he was exasperated by how much I didn’t know. Still, he was patient. And I had to learn patience too: the counters were built for his comfort, and I was slicing and dicing at my shoulder height. I’m a mere 5′ 1/2″.

But I learned, and tried my best to keep up with all the prep work, even when I needed a ladder to reach any spices.

It was a snowy evening. Bob, the owner, and I were the only ones working, and we didn’t anticipate many customers. This was New England, after all, and snows could lay on pretty thick in January. And since there weren’t many food orders that evening (the restaurant portion of the cafe was still very new) I manned the espresso machine as well as the chef counter. Bob, being the owner, had people to chat with.

At first it wasn’t so bad.

Then came the order for Fettuccine Alfredo, Jeff’s signature dish. I set the sauce on the stove over low heat to simmer while I made the three cappuccinos that had been ordered.

I looked up from the espresso machine to see five people had just come in from the blizzard. And Bob was still chatting away at the milk and lid counter. I really wanted to think well of my boss, but I wasn’t thinking well of anyone at that juncture of my life. I muttered many things I repented of later on.

Three orders down, four people in line, two more walking through the door, and the Alfredo sauce I’d forgotten about suddenly boiled over. I’d had it up just a little too high.

I rescued the Alfredo sauce, cleaned up the stove, wiped down the counter and rushed back to the espresso machine. “Bob!” I called out over the hustle and bustle of the crowd. “A little help please!”

“Oh.” He rushed behind the counter and began ringing customers up.

Once there was a lull again, I set a pot of rice to boil. I could easily make macchiatos and keep an ear out for boiling water. After all, a watched pot never boils. Right?

It turned out that I hadn’t cleaned the Alfredo sauce as well as I thought I had. There was some still under the cooking element on the electric stove. It bubbled and sparked against the element. Even though I didn’t see this, one of the customers had.

“Excuse me, there’s a fire. THERE’S A FIRE!!!”

After that, everything was a blur. Someone grabbed the fire extinguisher and started the sweep motion.

Someone was ushering everyone out of the cafe into the blizzard.

Everyone complained about the smell. The cold. The emergency vehicles swarming the cafe.

I don’t think Bob was very happy with me. He didn’t blame me, but he wasn’t happy with me.

And I didn’t want to imagine what Jeff would say.

“How’s the kitchen?” I tentatively asked one of the firefighters.

“It’ll be a long time and a lot of cleaning before you can use it again.”

I hung my head. A week later, I resigned from the job with profuse apologies to both the owner and to the chef I respected so much.

I had the biggest failure a cook could imagine. I’d burned down the kitchen.

After that, my cooking skills took off. I’d done the worst that could be done, and I could only go up from there, right?

 

Chicken and Spinach Alfredo (inspired by Jeff)

1 pint cream or half n half
1 c. or more parmesan cheese
salt and pepper
1/2 tsp nutmeg
2 tsp garlic
2 tbsp olive oil
2 handfuls spinach
2/3 – 3/4 lb boneless, skinless chicken
1 tsp. thyme
3/4 lb fettuccine

 

Method:

Sprinkle chicken w/salt, pepper and thyme and set under ‘broil’ for 5-7 minutes. Turn and cook another 5-7 minutes. Set aside, and chop when cool enough to handle.

Start water for pasta.

Heat olive oil in a frying pan over med-low heat, then add garlic. Once garlic is golden brown, add salt and pepper, then slowly add cream, whisking lightly. Add nutmeg. Whisk nearly continuously. Once cream begins to bubble, add parmesan cheese, 1/4 cup at a time, whisking each portion in before adding more. Once sauce begins to bubble again, add spinach. Stir continuously. When you’ve added the pasta to the boiling water, add the chicken to the Alfredo sauce and continue to stir.

Here’s a secret I’ve learned: drain the pasta while it’s still very al dente and add it to the sauce. Stir to coat the pasta. Remove from heat, cover and let sit for at least 5 minutes. The pasta will absorb some of the sauce’s yummy flavor during its last stage of cooking.

Okay, my mouth is watering and I’m going to go make lunch now.

I hope you’ve been encouraged–even if you’ve failed as massively as burning down a kitchen, get back up and follow your dream!

*Names have been changed.

No More Sympathy for the Devil

A few weeks ago I finished reading one of the best books I’d read in a decade. It had so many of the elements I’d been longing for in a book: spirituality, quality writing, fascinating characters, satisfying descriptions, folklore, fairies, history, and layers of rhythm. The book is called The Fall, by Chana Keefer. It’s book 1 of The Rapha Chronicles.

I have to say, the layers of rhythm were my favorite that I’d read since The Count of Monte Cristo. Layer one: the prose flowed like delicious poetry. Layer two: the oscillations between points of view had a beautiful, spiraling sort of rhythm. Layer three: the action, description, emotion and character development were each brought in what I considered perfect contrast and balance. Every portion of the book was told with beauty and skill, even when going back and forth between the physical and spiritual planes.

With as much as I loved this story, I didn’t agree with the theology in all of it (particularly a brief discussion between the Father and the Son), and neither did I consider it ‘history’. But I loved the story very much, and here’s why:

(and I’m going to be very honest with you here)

There were times, early on in my Christian walk, when I thought that eternal damnation for the devil was, at best, excruciatingly harsh. Some strange sense of misplaced pity stirred up sympathy in me for the devil. I wondered, secretly, if God, who is so incredibly forgiving, would pardon Satan at the end of the ages. I wondered if what the enemy had done was really so bad as all that.

After reading Keefer’s story in The Fall, I no longer have sympathy for the devil in any corner of my heart. I thank the author for that gift, and am so grateful to God for what He did in me through this book. Once you read it, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about. And I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Right now, there’s a special on the paperback of The Fall. Check it out!

Where to find Chana Keefer:

Twitter

www.chanakeefer.com

Just Don’t Let Her Use Knives While She Cooks

Okay, so I was a little accident prone as a kid. My parents began to wonder if I bumped into things on purpose. By brother did that as part of his 10 year old comedy routine, so it wasn’t such a far-fetched idea to think little sister would copy. Nope. I was just clumsy.

My frequent crashing into tables and day-dreamy slips of hand were the reason my mom banned me from using knives. Now that I’m a mom, I totally understand her concern and am thankful she did her best to make sure I entered adulthood with all my fingers. Thanks, Ma!

But then again, I did have to contribute to the household, and that involved cooking. And since everyone loved garlic, but no one loved spending the extra money to buy already chopped garlic, a knife was essential.

And since we had sixty times more tomatoes than the average house, and no one wanted whole tomatoes in their pasta, a knife was essential.

I won’t give you the recipe for the garlic and fingernail tomato sauce. I promise. It goes without saying that my family didn’t want to eat that again.

It’s funny how people want to prove others wrong. From the time I was eight until I was twelve, I heard constantly that I should stay away from knives while cooking. I grew more determined to learn how to use a knife. Especially if I could use it like those super awesome chefs who chopped garlic cloves in mere seconds!

So I tried. And I still have all my fingers, although there were some very close calls, and a few dinners that had to be scrapped altogether. No one wanted my literal blood, sweat or tears in their food.

But then I learned a trick: if I did something super slow, but did it over and over again, soon I’d reach lightning speed with precision. Most kids don’t start out by running, but by toddling. (I say ‘most kids’ because I was blessed with one of those rare specimens of humankind who started the process by running.)

Every summer, from my 8th to my 17th year we had a harvest of 60 bushels of tomatoes, and these had to be converted into canned tomatoes, tomato sauce, salsa, etc. I had plenty of opportunity to practice this precision. And as the smell of increasingly ripe tomatoes filled our porch, my determination to use a knife quicker grew. And I could get creative and experiment if I was fast enough.

It took many years, and a few Italian chefs’ inspiring recipes, to help me come up with my own perfect tomato sauce. And I couldn’t have learned if I never used a knife. Thanks, Ma, for finally trusting me with one!

Fresh Tomato Sauce:

3 lbs Roma tomatoes, blanched, skins removed.
10 cherry tomatoes (or other sweet, tiny variety), halved or quartered
1 tbsp fresh or 2 tsp dried oregano
3 tbsp chopped fresh basil
3-5 cloves garlic (to taste) minced
1 med onion, chopped
2 tsp cumin
1 bay leaf
salt & pepper
cayenne pepper (optional)
1/4 c. sugar or honey (optional–this cuts through the bitterness of the tomatoes)
3 tbsp olive oil

Method:

Puree Roma tomatoes. Strain to remove seeds, if desired.

In a sauce pan (I recommend a cast iron dutch oven pan if you have it) heat oil over medium heat. Add onion. After 1-2 minutes, add garlic. When garlic starts to brown, add pureed tomatoes. Cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally to prevent burns on the bottom. When the tomatoes begin to boil, add the cherry tomatoes, the herbs, the spices and the sweetener. Stir and boil for 2-3 minutes. Simmer for at least an hour, stirring occasionally.

This is a good base to which you can add:

Chopped mushrooms
Chopped olives
Sun-dried tomatoes
Cheeses
Sausage, meatballs, etc.

For an earthier sauce, use more honey and cumin.

For a sweeter sauce, use more basil and sugar.

I’m not as fast as Emeril, or as artistic and fancy as Giada. But if I can use a knife, you can do anything you set your mind to.

What have you set your mind to do lately?